


Parallel

by Jess_B_Fossil



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, But only after you love yourself, Drama, Drama & Romance, Falling In Love, Felix is a hardworking tax man, I promise this ends happy, M/M, Parallel Universe, Romance, Sci-Fi AU, Twilight Zone AU, learning to love, partially established relationship, you'll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:15:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23677483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jess_B_Fossil/pseuds/Jess_B_Fossil
Summary: Felix cuts a sharp figure in his slick suit, fingers wrapped loosely around the handle of his briefcase. His key slides into the lock and it turns, the door creaking open, as he slips into the foyer of his brownstone. “Honey, I’m home,” he calls out, but there’s a bitter edge to his voice as he flips on the hall light. “Oh wait, that’s right. I live alone.” He drops his briefcase onto the table in the entryway and moves to loosen his tie.His life is rinse and repeat.The next day, his briefcase drops onto the entry table. The light switches on, and he contemplates his quiet existence and empty house for a solid moment before sighing, “Honey, I’m home.”The rest of his ritual is already on his lips, but he doesn’t get to complete it because, before he can, there’s a clear and distinct answer from the kitchen.“Oh good. I picked up some pizza.”--Oneshot Sylvix, Twilight Zone AU.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 51
Kudos: 254





	Parallel

**Author's Note:**

> When I pulled a random prompt to help inspire me, I didn't think that it would turn into a 15k Monster. This piece emotionally drained me while working on it, but I'm really satisfied with the result, and I hope to high hell that y'all like it. Thanks to Iri for ripping this apart and helping me put it back together.

_**Parallel** _   
  


* * *

Felix cuts a sharp figure in his slick suit, fingers wrapped loosely around the handle of his briefcase. His key slides into the lock and it turns, the door creaking open, as he slips into the foyer of his brownstone. 

“Honey, I’m home,” he calls out, but there’s a bitter edge to his voice as he flips on the hall light. “Oh wait, that’s right. I live alone.” He drops his briefcase onto the table in the entryway and moves to loosen his tie. 

Felix is used to being alone, he’s been alone for a very long time. His brother is dead. He doesn’t talk to his father. He spends his days analyzing numbers and taxes from nine-to-five, and then sipping at a decent whisky from eight-to-ten. 

He doesn’t really cook even though he can, and when he slides into his sheets at night, clean and tired, he congratulates himself on a decent day of work. When he sleeps, it’s dreamless and dark, but satisfying. He wakes up with a slight crick in his neck, but it's because he’s too stubborn to replace his mattress, and he persists sleeping on _his_ side, even if it’s the lumpy one. 

It’s routine. It’s well-known. He likes having a schedule and expectations. 

He hates how empty it feels. 

The next day is a Wednesday. It’s full of numbers and taxes and names, and Felix tiredly rubs at his eyes as he tries to make sense of them. But his head hurts and his brain is barely working, and maybe he’s coming down sick and that’s why it’s hard to focus. 

Still, he persists and it isn’t until Annette says something that he realizes he’s stayed over by an hour, back hurting from leaning over too long, eyes straining from the fine print he’s been pouring over. 

“Felix,” Annette says to him, her sing-song voice at ends with her sad gaze. “I’m worried about you.” Of course she is, she always is. It doesn’t matter that she moved out nearly six years ago, or that her side of the bed still remains cold, she’ll always _care_. 

And it’s not that he doesn’t care for her or anything, he loves her deeply. They just aren’t _in_ love anymore. 

“Nonsense,” he tells her. “I’m only tired.”

She watches him for a long moment, catching her lip between her teeth and chewing at it, then says, “Mercie and I are going for a drink. You should come.”

Felix almost says yes, but then he remembers that he’s thirty-two and too old to go out for a round or two and still wake up easily in the morning. As much as he loves Annette and Mercie, their company is draining and he isn’t in the mood. 

“Thank you, Annie,” he says to her and while he doesn’t give her a smile, there’s a slight quirk of his lips, and she’s one of the few who gets that expression regularly. “But I think I’ll head home to bed. My eyes are burning.”

Annette looks like she’s about to say something, but she opts not to, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder instead. “All right then. Good night Felix.”

He offers her the same and leaves the building alone. 

And drives home alone. 

And slides the key into the lock alone. 

The key turns and the tumblers with it, and he pushes the door open with his hip. His briefcase drops onto the entry table. The light switches on, and he contemplates his quiet existence and empty house for a solid moment before sighing, “Honey, I’m home.” 

The rest of his ritual is already on his lips, but he doesn’t get to complete it because, before he can, there’s a clear and distinct answer from the kitchen. 

“Oh good. I picked up some pizza.”

* * *

Felix freezes at the voice. It’s deep. It’s male. It doesn’t sound like Dimitri and he kind of wishes that it was, because it wouldn’t be the first time that he’s snuck into his home with his spare key and slummed it on the couch after fighting with Dedue and being too Faerghan to talk about it. Dimitri Felix can handle, even in his tired state. He’s not so sure about a stranger who’s broken in.

Felix adjusts the position of his keyring in his hand, cool metal sliding between his knuckles. He took kendo and is better with a sword, but he knows how to throw a proper punch without breaking a thumb. Gripping the keys tighter, he slowly makes his way to the end of the entrance hall, carefully peeling around the corner towards the den and the kitchen. 

The man is tall. He’s slightly tanned, with wild and unruly red hair. He wears a burgundy plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up halfway. He’s… also wearing Annette’s old _Kiss My Buns_ apron which is confusing, because Felix _knows_ that’s packed away and stored in the hall closet and has been for _years_ \--

“Felix,” the man says with ease. With familiarity. With _warmth_ . Felix narrows his eyes. It doesn’t make sense; he’s never seen this man before, but it’s clear that he knows him. It’s evident in his tone and in the way he moves through the kitchen with ease, because he’s having _no problem_ finding dinnerware and utensils. 

Felix pauses at that, watching him load a plate with a piece of pizza, only to set a fork and a knife next to it. How does he know his preferred method of eating such a thing? The man looks up and smiles, and Goddess it’s striking, wide and warm, and for a moment, Felix is jealous that a man can look so happy. 

And then he remembers that this man has broken into his house. 

“Come over,” he says, waving towards the plate set for him. “Eat. It’s gonna get cold if you don’t.”

The man unties the apron, folding it neatly before putting it in the wardrobe with the china and _how the fuck does he know that’s where it goes when it’s not being used and_ \-- 

This is madness. This is nuts. Felix must have fallen asleep at his desk and dreamt this wild fantasy up, because it’s too weird, it’s too uncanny, it feels--

Well, not wrong; it feels right, and it’s kind of freaking him out. 

The man is staring at him, head cocked to the side, auburn eyes soft with affection, freckles dusting across his nose, lips parted slightly and then-- “Felix, are you alright? You look tired. Did work go okay?”

“I’m… tired,” Felix is unsure why he bothers to answer, because playing along can’t be safe.

“Is it the Von Aegir account? I know that man has a lot of things to shift through, but he’s at least easy to work with, right?”

Felix is absolutely certain he’s now dreaming, because there’s no way a stalker would know that. Half of his office doesn’t know that. His accounts are _secret._ He loosens his grip on the keys, dropping them in his pocket, before moving to sit down. 

It doesn’t feel like a dream. He’s never had a dream so vivid, or where food is warm and steaming, or where he’s aware of just how uncomfortable these dumb stools are or--

The man slides a hand along his shoulder and squeezes gently before letting go. It’s a practiced motion, full of familiarity. 

“This is going to sound odd,” Felix blurts, “But how do you know about that account?”

The man blinks at him. “You complain about it literally every night,” he says around a mouth full of pizza. “I can’t even read in bed before the lights go out, because you’re too busy harping about Ferdinand and his terrible tea choices.”

“We share a bed?” The words come before he can stop them and Felix hopes that he hasn’t royally fucked whatever this is up. 

The man quirks his brows, mouth parted gently before it snaps shut in surprise. “I mean, yeah, for like four years.” Then his eyes narrow. “Are you _sure_ you’re alright?” He reaches out, pressing his hand against Felix’s forehead, frowning. “You feel like you could be a little bit warm but--”

“What’s your name?” Felix regrets it, he really regrets it and he’s not hot because he’s sick, he’s hot because he’s flustered. But it’s probably easier to think that he’s just sick, because it’s the only explanation there is; how can he be sharing a bed with a man that he’s never met?

“Sylvain--”

“It was a joke,” Felix speaks over him, but it’s not because he doesn’t know a _Sylvain_ . It doesn’t ring a bell, there’s _nothing_ familiar which is a damn shame because Felix would _definitely_ want to remember meeting this man.

Sylvain smiles but it parts his face only halfway, like he wants to believe Felix but he doesn’t quite. Something here is off, and for the first time since he’s stepped through his doorstep, Felix isn’t sure the stranger is the problem. The man sitting across from him is at ease here, he _knows_ where he is; it's clear that he _knows_ Felix. 

And Felix has the distinct feeling that he’s the intruder here, even if that doesn’t make sense, because this is _his_ home. Sylvain is quiet as he watches him eating, but the calculating gaze that he wears just makes the food in Felix’s mouth turn to ash. 

“You know Sylvain, I’m not feeling very well after all. I think that I’ll head to bed.” He pushes away from his stool, but then pauses. “Thank you… for bringing home food. I’m sorry.” 

Felix isn’t sure what he’s apologizing for. He kicks open the trash can by the foot pedal and the pizza slides in with a greasy tumble. He sets the plate in the sink gently, before turning to leave the kitchen. 

Sylvain is still watching him, chin in his hand, a little line furrowed between his eyebrows as Felix casts one more look at him. He shouldn’t feel guilty. This is _his_ home, he doesn’t know this man but-- 

He feels weirdly vulnerable and it’s not because there’s a strange and beautiful man in his kitchen, it’s because that man knows him, Felix can tell this man knows him deeply. He brushes past without another word, trying to avoid the tense air between them. 

“Felix,” Sylvain says quietly and Felix turns back. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks once more. 

Felix seriously considers telling him the truth. He’s _this_ close to just blurting that he has no idea who he is, that he wants him out of the house, that he’s tired and Sylvain needs to go. But he doesn’t, he can’t, something holds him back from hurting this man and he doesn’t feel in danger. 

Felix can handle his own anyway. 

He sighs. “Yes,” he says, and he hopes that this time there’s more conviction in his voice, but the moment the word is breathed, he can tell that he’s failed. Sylvain’s expression is pinched, but he doesn’t press. In fact, he doesn’t say a damn word, and for some reason, it speaks volumes more than any other thing would, because for the ten minutes that Felix has known the man, Sylvain doesn’t seem the type to keep quiet. 

So Felix runs. He turns on his heel and retreats into the bedroom. 

* * *

His bedroom is different and that’s how Felix knows this must be a dream. A wild and disturbingly vivid dream, but a dream nonetheless. The room isn’t chaos, but it’s well lived in. It lacks the clinical tidiness that Felix is prone to, because he works too much and is too tired to truly enjoy his home. There’s an extra dresser. Knick-knacks and pictures that Felix doesn’t recognize. A desk that he certainly doesn’t own, with an unfamiliar shirt strewn over the chair next to it.

He steps into the bathroom, gray tile cold underneath his feet like so many other things in his life. The bathroom is different too, with bottles of hair products strewn about, two sets of toothbrushes and the ugliest burnt orange shag bath mat he’s ever seen. He turns the water hotter than he normally likes. Felix strips and his hand lingers on the doorknob before locking it.

He stands under the boiling stream beyond the time it takes to run cold. Felix doesn’t pull himself out until his fingers and toes are ice, hair hanging limp and wet around his face in clammy strands. 

The person that stares back in the mirror looks tired and haunted, circles bruising deep underneath his eyes. Felix tries to make sense of everything that is happening to him, from the handsome man that he’s created in his mind eye, to the brilliant vividness of this entire experience. 

He opts not to blow dry his hair, twisting it into a wet knot to at least get it off his face. He slips into the soft pajama pants and plain T-shirt he’d brought into the bathroom with him. He brushes his teeth and moisturizes, slapping lightly at his cheeks like it’ll wake him up.

It doesn’t. 

With a sigh, he unlocks the door, gliding into the bedroom that’s fallen dark. There’s a lump in the bed, nestled into the sheets on the side that isn’t Felix’s. Red hair curls around Sylvain’s face, brushing across his cheekbones. Felix watches him for a long moment before his gaze cuts to the empty side of the mattress.

He can’t sleep in here, he can’t share a bed with a man that he doesn’t know, dream or not. Quietly, he tiptoes around the edge of the bed to the closet. He pilfers a spare quilt, before grabbing his pillow from the bed and--

“Felix…”

Felix pauses at the quiet muttering of his name, hand on the bedroom door as he glances back. Sylvian is still asleep, brow furrowed, arm out and fingers fisting the sheets where Felix would normally sleep. 

It doesn’t feel like a dream anymore; it feels too real and Felix feels like he’s an outsider intruding somewhere that he doesn’t belong. He slips from the room, shutting the door behind him as quietly as he can manage. 

The couch is cold and uncomfortable, and the soft leather of it sticks to Felix’s skin. Still, he turns on his side, pulling the quilt tighter around him, pressing into his pillow. It doesn’t smell like him, he realizes, it smells like the other man. _Sylvain_ , with his tanned skin burnished with soft brown freckles and easy-going demeanor. 

Felix settles back onto his back, before he finally manages to drift to sleep. 

He thinks he remembers a soft kiss on the forehead and the whisper of loving words, but he must imagine it.

* * *

Felix wakes up to the smell of bacon and he’s come to the realization that this isn’t a dream. He doesn’t know how he knows it, but he can feel it in his bones. He’s the intruder here and whatever Felix has made his life with Sylvain, has temporarily vanished.

There’s dread that settles through him, as he sits up. Sylvain’s poking around the kitchen in his pajamas, tongs in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other, standing over the gas range. He looks just as tired as Felix feels, a slight raggedness to his form that makes Felix wonder if Sylvain realizes that there’s something off about all of this too. 

The quilt slips around his shoulders as he yawns, and Sylvain looks up, eyes carefully hooded as he regards Felix. “I must have snored really bad last night for you to slum it on the couch,” Sylvain says, turning back to the pan to flip the bacon. 

“Snoring,” Felix replies. “Right. Absolutely terrible.”

Sylvain hums at that. “Odd,” he says, “Considering that you’re the one who snores, not me.”

Sylvain knows, he _definitely_ knows that something is off. Of course he does though. If Sylvain has a version of Felix he’s lived with for years, he would _definitely_ know the difference. Still, it’s better to play sick than a different man.

“Sorry, I’m just---” Felix sighs wearily. “I’m tired and the bedroom just felt… wrong.”

Sylvain says nothing as he pulls the bacon off, setting the strips on a paper-towel lined plate. Felix watches as he sets about making another cup of coffee, setting a pod into a single-serve maker that Felix wouldn’t be caught _dead_ owning. Once it’s done brewing, he doesn’t add anything, opting to bring it to him black. 

The familiarity that radiates off of this man punches Felix in the gut. He takes the cup from Sylvain without a word, cradling it between both of his hands, leaning over the steaming liquid. Sylvain pulls a chair up next to him, dropping onto it backwards, arms draped over the spine. 

“Felix,” Sylvain says, “Please tell me what’s wrong.”

“I-- _nothing_.” But the word feels like dirt in his mouth and he can feel the way that his lips tug downwards, and there’s no way that he sounds remotely convincing. Felix isn’t and will never be, a good liar. So he tries again. “It’s work-- and not just the Von Aegir account. I’m tired at looking at numbers all day and it’s starting to really sink in, I think.”

Sylvain takes a sip of his coffee, considering his words for a long moment as his eyes rake over Felix’s tired form, but he eventually nods. “Okay, Fe,” he says, and the nickname pulls at Felix. “Okay.” 

Sylvain gets up, placing his mug back on the counter. “I made breakfast,” he says, and this time there’s a little more pep to his voice. “It’s only bacon and toast, but you still have time before you head into the office.”

Felix blinks as he watches Sylvain turn to pull two plates from the cabinets. He lifts himself from the counter with a sigh, retreating back into the bedroom. Sylvain’s tidied up a bit, dirty clothes properly thrown into the hamper and the bed made. 

Still, he struggles to dress, staring into his closet blankly before he remembers that he’s trying to get ready. He looks worse than the day before, a ghostly image blinking back at him in the mirror. He doesn’t bother to brush his hair, even if he knows that it’ll knot. He ties it back hastily instead. 

When he comes back to the kitchen, there’s a plate waiting for him, loaded with bacon and toast and that dumb red plum jam that he insists on paying way too much for. He’s surprised that he can eat, but maybe it’s because he’s starving, or maybe it’s because Sylvain has retreated to dress himself, or--

Felix doesn’t really know, he doesn’t seem to know _anything_ in that moment. The bacon is well cooked and the coffee is exactly how he likes it, but he can’t even focus on them, because his mind is too busy trying to figure shit out. 

When Sylvain comes back in, he’s scrubbed clean and smells like Aqua Velvet, which Felix normally hates, but on Sylvain he doesn’t. He kind of leans into it, when Sylvain bends over and pecks him on the cheek. And then he remembers that this man is a stranger and pulls back. Sylvain doesn’t notice, pressing another kiss to his forehead. 

“I’m sure that I’ll be home before you again,” Sylvain says. “Would you like me to bring home dinner again? Or would you like me to cook?”

“I-- um, whatever works for you. I guess.”

Sylvain lets out a sigh, like he’s trying to figure him out but can’t, and says, “Alright, I’ve got it. You just worry about those dumb tax accounts, okay?”

“Yeah,” Felix replies. “Dumb.”

Sylvain laughs, full and warmhearted, and for a moment Felix can believe that this man actually loves him. 

It bothers Felix how much he misses that feeling. 

* * *

Felix learns that Sylvain isn’t a singular presence locked in at his home. Whatever it was that is happening, is happening _everywhere_ , because Annette greets him by asking him how Sylvain was doing. Apparently, she _misses his dumb butt_.

“Annette, help me here,” Felix asks her later at lunch, “How did I meet Sylvain?”

Annette blinks back at him, and then bursts out laughing. When he blinks back at her, head cocked to the side, she sobers up slightly and says, “Wait, were you serious? Felix, how could you have forgotten?”

Felix rubs at his neck sheepishly. “Well, it’s not that I just-- look, I want to hear it from your perspective, I guess.”

Annette goes strangely quiet, eyes downcast and gaze contemplative. “Odd, that you would ask me that,” she muses, and it catches Felix off guard. “There wasn’t a lot to it,” she continues. “But I always told you that those track pants were too tight on you.”

Felix freezes, eyes narrowing. It was odd, how many similarities there were with his world and wherever this was. His favorite pair of running pants had been a size too small and she constantly complained about them. 

“Track pants,” he repeats. “You always told me that I’d split them.”

Annette crosses her arms, smile spreading wide across her face. “And that’s exactly what happened,” she says, and Felix blanches because he’s mortified, absolutely mortified at the idea of it. “But how lucky you were that such a hot and studly man was right there, willing to lend you a sweatshirt. You looked ridiculous coming home that day, shirt tied around your waist and a sheepish stranger behind you.”

Felix falls very quiet. He and Annette had been together in this lifetime too, and he’d met Sylvain while they were still together. For a moment, there’s a horrible thought, a horrible, _horrible_ thought that he’s the kind of man that could cheat and that Sylvain is the kind of man that could wreck a home but--

Well, Annette and him were still friends, and she looks upon this memory with a strange fondness.

Also, what a _ridiculous_ way to meet a man. 

“Annette,” he starts quietly, “Were you ever angry that…”

He doesn’t finish the question, but she seems to grasp what he means, and she looks surprised. “What, you and Sylvain? Felix, of course not.” Annette pauses and let’s out a long sigh. “You’re overthinking things like you always do. Sometimes things are simple and you just overlook them. Whatever fight the two of you are having, you’ll figure it out.”

“We’re not--” Felix sighs. “We’re not fighting, there’s just… I’m not quite myself.”

Annette hums at that. “Yeah, I noticed. You went for the red mug instead of the green one.”

“Er-- what?”

“I gave you the red mug nearly a decade ago, Felix, and while I’m glad that you still have it, it was _really_ weird for you to use it over the one Sylvain gave you.” 

“I just-- I guess I wasn’t paying attention. I’ll… it’ll be fine. I’ll get over this funk.” 

Annette is quiet for a long moment, before she says, “I have a feeling that I’m not the one that you should be telling that.” She stands, before squeezing his shoulder affectionately. “Whatever it is, talk to him about it. Sylvain is the kind of person that will worry himself into his grave.”

For not the first time in his life, he curses Annette for how perceptive she is. At the same time, he loves that about her. “Thank you, Annie,” he says quietly. 

“Of course.”

* * *

Felix doesn’t talk to Sylvain about it, mostly because he has no idea how to talk to the man. 

Felix has a distinct type of person, when it comes to dating. Quiet, demure and definitely not male. Hell, he’s never even _considered_ dating a man. But then again, his type clearly isn’t a standard, because Annette wasn’t any of those things and he’d nursed a ring for months with the intent of _marrying_ her. Instead of saying yes though, she’d only replied with an _Oh, Felix_ , and two months later she’d moved the bulk of her important things out of his home.

Sylvain doesn’t question him. As promised, dinner is taken care off, falling into his lap in the form of Chinese take-out from _Wok and Roll._ They forgo the counter and stools, settling into the couch, Felix as far to one side as he can manage and legs stretched out to keep Sylvain from snuggling too close. 

This must be a familiar motion, because Sylvain just winks at him, pulling his feet into his lap instead, kneading at his tired arches. 

Felix doesn’t stop him. 

But then bedtime comes and he panics, citing that he’ll sleep on the couch again. Sylvain’s face falls, but when Felix tells him that his back aches from leaning over reports all day, he seems to understand. 

“Let’s swap sides then,” Sylvain says. “I can handle the lumpy part of the mattress for a night or two.”

Felix hesitates. “No I-- it’s terrible, I can’t ask that of you. It’s fine, I’ll just sleep out here.”

Sylvain looks like he wants to say something, but he thinks better of it, and Felix takes the awkward moment to run into the bedroom and ready himself for the night. It’s the same kind of feeling as the morning really, staring off as he finds his sleep clothes, brushes his teeth and preps for sleep. 

When he emerges, Sylvain eyes his pajamas with a frown on his face. Somethings off, something is wrong and Felix starts to panic--

Sylvain leans over with the intent to kiss him goodnight. Felix turns to the side though, lips catching his cheek, and he closes his eyes in a wince because that was absolutely the wrong thing to do. He can feel Sylvain stiffen against his cheek, and when he pulls back he doesn’t look angry, he looks sad. Lips tugged into the tiniest of frowns, his hands on Felix’s shoulders and--

Felix hates this, he _hates_ hurting this man, because it isn’t fair to him. Whatever Sylvain has for _his_ Felix, is real love; the kind of love that’s enviable, that people spend entire lifetimes trying to find, and it’s obvious in the way that Sylvain goes about everything in their carefully maintained life. 

“Sylvain,” he blurts suddenly, “I’m-- I’m sorry.” The words are a harsh whisper and he watches Sylvain take a deep breath and sigh. 

“Whatever it is, you can tell me,” he says quietly. 

“No, I-- I don’t think I can tell you this,” Felix murmurs. “But it’s not you, it’s definitely me, and I just need… I need a little bit to sort it out.”

Sylvain is silent for a long moment, moving a hand to grip his chin gently, thumb sliding along the smooth skin of Felix’s cheek. “Okay,” he says, leaning forward to press a kiss to his forehead and Felix reaches out, one hand grasping at his shirt tightly. Sylvain is the perfect height to fall against, to be pulled closer, to just fall into and just disappear. His lips linger there, soft against Felix’s forehead, like he’s trying to savor the moment and he’s afraid that Felix will pull away. 

“Okay,” Sylvain says again. “I love you.”

Felix wants to vomit; he’s _going_ to, because he can’t say it back, even if he knows that the other Felix would, knowing that there’s no way _he_ doesn’t love this man. But he can’t, he can’t, _he can’t_ , even if only to pretend for Sylvain’s sake, because he doesn’t deserve this, he doesn’t deserve any of the wretched shit that Felix is being put through.

When Sylvain pulls back things are different than before. Sylvain is stiff and words are caught in Felix’s throat, because he knows that no matter what he says, he can’t fix the damage that he’s just done. 

Felix lets go of his shirt, smoothing it out in a nervous gesture, unable to meet his gaze. It’s not him that retreats this time, it’s Sylvain, shooting him one last glance before he shuts the bedroom door behind him. 

Felix needs to find a way back, because he can't keep doing this, he can’t just slip into this life that isn’t his. He’s going to _wreck_ this wonderful foundation that Sylvain has built with someone else, and it’s because he doesn’t know him, and even if he’s Felix, he’s a _different_ Felix. 

He needs to sort it out. He’s got to find a way out of this, because it isn’t fair to break the heart of a man who doesn’t deserve it.

* * *

Sylvain doesn’t greet him in the morning. 

He doesn’t make breakfast.

Felix’s coffee mug remains empty and cold. 

Sylvain dresses in silence and doesn’t say anything as he leaves for work, and that’s how Felix knows he’s fucked up. 

Later that night, after a long and grueling day of numbers and taxes, and one very annoying tea monger, Felix slips into the house quietly. When he walks into the kitchen, Sylvain is there, hands already in the sink washing up as he prepares to make dinner. 

He barely glances at him. 

“I know that you love me,” Felix tells him, and Sylvain pauses. “I _know_ that you do, I know--”

“Felix--”

“And I just…” Felix shuts his eyes tight, taking a deep breath and-- “I love you too,” he tells him, hoping it’s as convincing as he’s trying to make it sound. “Things are weird now but--”

“Yeah, I know,” Sylvain interrupts. “It’s not me.” His tone is flat, but Felix can sense that abrasive quality there. Sylvain must not be the type to get angry often, because he seems almost unused to it. 

Felix slides next to him, turning the faucet back on. “I’ll cook tonight,” he says. 

Sylvain’s head snaps to the side in surprise, but he dries his hands on the dish towel. “Alright,” he says quietly. He hesitates and then leans down, kissing the crown of Felix’s head. “Thanks.” The words are soft, but they sound at least a little bit relieved, and Felix knows that he’s not just thanking him for dinner. 

Fifteen minutes later, Felix is cutting up carrots and Sylvain watches him. He slides the knife along at an angle and that must be odd, because Sylvain’s eyes narrow slightly. 

“Carrots, huh?” he finally asks. 

Felix looks up, meeting auburn eyes, but instead of glowing with affection, they breed suspicion. Felix swallows thickly. “New recipe,” he mutters. 

Sylvain doesn’t reply, but Felix knows that this time, he doesn’t buy it. 

They eat a good dinner and watch a movie, but it’s with a quiet silence that fills the room. There’s room between them again with Felix stretched out like a cat to cover space, but Sylvain doesn’t pull Felix’s feet into his lap. He doesn’t move to rub at them. A palpable distance stretches between the two of them and it makes Felix sick. 

“I’ll grab the quilt,” Sylvain says when he pulls himself from the couch. 

“No--” Felix starts, and Sylvain stops, paused in the entrance of the bedroom, looking back over his shoulders. “I’ll… let’s go to bed.”

Sylvain lets out a short laugh, but it sounds annoyed more than anything. “That was the intent.”

“No, I mean…” 

Sylvain is the one that sighs, before turning back towards him and leaning against the doorframe. “Felix, come here,” he says softly. 

Felix does, pressing a hand to Sylvain’s chest. “I don’t want to sleep alone,” Felix tells him, and it’s true, he really doesn’t. 

He hasn’t wanted to sleep alone for years, but there’s not anyone to share that with, because he’s so very alone. And now here’s Sylvain, who doesn’t love him, but loves something like him, and maybe it’s dumb that Felix feels like indulging in it for at least one night. 

Sylvain’s hand hovers over his shoulder, almost like he’s afraid to touch him, but then he pulls him closer. “Yeah, okay, come here.”

Felix lets the man hug him and then they part, stepping into the room. Felix retreats to the bathroom to ready himself, and when he comes back, Sylvain’s already nestled into the covers. “Those are your pajamas,” he says. He sounds confused.

Felix looks down, fingertips roaming across the soft t-shirt and plaid flannel of his pants. “They’re comfy,” he replies. 

Sylvain doesn’t elaborate on whatever he’s thinking. Felix slides under the covers and clicks off the lamp beside him, the room falling into pitch darkness. There’s light filtering through the window and he can see Sylvain’s pinched expression in the soft moonlight. 

He looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t, rolling over instead. He’s in a T-shirt and boxers, and Felix stares at the wide expanse of his back, fingers itching to rub across his strong shoulder blades. 

It’s not fair of him to feel like this, because Sylvain isn’t his.

Felix has never felt lonelier. 

* * *

Two more days pass in a similar way. 

Felix is starting to ease into the presence of Sylvain, but the other man pulls away slightly. He doesn’t blame him, because Felix knows that there are differences. He’s not the same man as the other Felix, and who better would know, than Sylvain who _loves_ him?

Annette would have known in a heartbeat. Actually, Felix thinks that even now, even as just a friend, she still knows, because it’s evident in the way that she regards him with curiosity when she thinks that he isn’t looking.

When Felix comes home that night, it’s rinse and repeat. Sylvain makes dinner this time and Felix picks the movie. They sit on opposite ends of the couch. They barely talk. When preparing for bed, Felix doesn’t bother hiding in the bathroom, because there isn’t a point. Sylvain knows what he looks like and it’ll only drive the wedge between them even further.

He’s pulling on his pajama pants when Sylvain finally says something. “Those are your pajamas.” It’s not the first time he’s said it, and it’s still just as weird to comment on. 

“You said that the other night,” Felix replies, fingering the soft cotton of his T-shirt.

“Since when have you worn your own clothes to bed?” Sylvain asks and Felix’s blood runs cold. “And that’s… that’s not the only thing that’s off,” he continues. “Cutting your carrots at an angle. I’ve only seen you do it in rounds. And sleeping on the couch? You _hate_ that couch, and you constantly remind me about what a waste of money it was.” Sylvain sighs, dragging a hand down his face. 

“You said you felt off and I believed you. You told me that work is commanding your attention, and it often does. But not stealing my clothes to sleep in? Showering alone? I always brush out your hair before bed. You always call me during lunch-- always-- and not a peep for days and then--” Sylvain’s words are coming a mile a minute and he takes a shaky breath, like he’s afraid to say whatever’s next. 

“And then you tell me that you love me.” 

Felix is confused. “But I--”

“Of _course_ you do Felix, Goddess, I fucking know, but you never _say_ it. I tell you that I love you and then you call me something stupid, like baffoon or sentiamental dolt or fool, and that’s the way you reply, because you-- _that’s just what you do._ ” 

If Felix were to be honest, that sounds on brand for him and he’s a fool, an utter and complete fool to think that he can pretend to be the man Sylvain loves, for however long this farce goes on.

“I’m not me,” Felix says, and Sylvain laughs loud, bitter and angry and annoyed all at once, and it’s the ugliest thing he’s ever heard. “No-- I mean, I’m not-- look, I don’t know how to explain this but--”

“Am I not enough anymore?” Sylvain asks him, his voice barely above a whisper, and Felix’s heart clenches because no, _no_ he can’t fuck this up. 

“I’m someone else,” Felix blurts. Sylvain looks at him, head cocked to the side as a sneer falls across his face. He’s _offended_ that Felix has come up with a ridiculous sounding excuse, even if the excuse is real. “Sylvain, I don’t know who you are-- I _just_ met you. I came home the other night after living alone for years, and you were just there and I--” He’s the one to take a shaky breath this time and he _knows_ that he sounds crazy. 

“That’s not funny,” Sylvain tells him. He’s sitting on the bed, head gripped between his hands, fingers twisted in his brilliant red hair and Felix knows that the words coming won’t be good. “That isn’t remotely funny, Felix. That’s--” He stands abruptly. 

“I’m going to Ingrid’s.” Felix has no idea who Ingrid is, but Sylvain’s already pulled out a duffel bag, stuffing it with clean clothes from the wardrobe and--

“Sylvain--”

“No,” Sylvain snaps. Felix halts, shying away from him like a skittish colt. “No, Felix, I can’t-- I can’t fucking do this.”

“Do _what_?”

“Of all the things you can say, you go with _I’m someone else?_ Goddess, Felix, I can’t even look at you right now.”

“It’s true,” Felix snaps right back. “What you have-- how much is it worth to you? Are you just going to walk out and not say anything?”

“What _we_ have,” Sylvain replies. “It’s what we have and how much it’s worth to _us_ , Felix. Together, as a couple. Four years together, and you’ve reduced everything that we’ve ever shared to something as stupid as _I don’t know you_. How can you even say that?”

Felix knows that it doesn’t matter what he says, because no amount of words or proof or anything, is going to change Sylvain’s mind. 

“What about our promise, Fe?” Sylvain has zipped the bag up and thrown it over his shoulder, and now he’s looking at Felix, face wet and eyes red, and Goddess above, Felix is next. And Felix never fucking cries, but he wants to cry for Sylvain, because he’s a wonderful person that the universe has irrovacably fucked up.

“Sylvain, I…” But the words die, because he has no idea what Sylvan is talking about. 

Sylvain pushes past him and out of the room, Felix following him close behind, but when he reaches the front door of the brownstone, he stops, turning back around. Felix hates the look on his face, he hates the raw and burning emotion behind it, and he suddenly realizes how lucky he was that he and Annette agreed on the break up, because he wouldn’t wish this kind of thing on his worst enemy. 

“Felix, I love you,” Sylvain tells him, and it’s with enough emotion that it makes his heart stop, because it feels like he’s telling _him_ , not his counterpart. It punches through Felix and he feels it in his bones, tugging at his core. “Goddess, I love you more than anything, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my fucking miserable life before you, it’s that it doesn’t matter how much you love someone, because they can still _hurt_ you.”

“Sylvain--”

“You push people away, Felix. It’s what you’re best at, and if that’s what you want, then _fine_ . You’ll work your job everyday from morning to night, and you’ll come home to an empty house and you’ll be _alone_. You’ll wallow in that loneliness forever, because you think that as long as one person puts in the effort, it’s enough, but it isn’t Fe. It never will be, and if you don’t learn that, you will spend the rest of your life miserable and without a single person by your side.”

Sylvain gives him one last look, and it’s sad, pitying and angry all in one go, before walking out. Tears finally slip down his face and there’s a pathetic sob that rips through him, uncharacteristic and burning, because this man has just analyzed him down to the very core, without even truly knowing who he is.

Sylvain knows him, better than he knows himself, and that’s when Felix realizes that no, he doesn’t want to be alone; he never wants to be alone again. He’ll do anything, if it means that he doesn’t live in that empty, vacant existence where he does nothing but barely live. 

* * *

Felix has never been able to hide anything from Annette and that’s probably why they didn’t work out in the end. 

Felix isn’t sure how much time passes before he calls Annette, but he’d sobbed some ridiculous, gut-wrenching words at her through the phone, and fifteen minutes later, Mercedes was at his door, pulling him into a tight hug and not letting go.

And now Felix is at their small kitchen table, a steaming mug of hot tea in front of him and a plate of delicious looking pastries cooked by Mercie herself. He knows he needs to eat something, but all he does is stare at it miserably instead, mind roaming a mile a minute as he tries to figure out what he’s going to do when he gets home. He’s not sure that he can fix things. He’s always been bad at that.

“Felix,” Annette says, rubbing at his back gently. Mercedes is on his other side, holding his cold hand in her warm ones, thumbs rubbing across the back of his palm. He’s dumb crying again, eyes red and face tired, nose stopped up and dribbling everywhere. He’s a goddess-damned mess and the last time _his_ Annette had seen him like this, was when his brother had unexpectedly died, and he’d spent a week in anger before breaking down on the kitchen floor, tucked against a cabinet with a half empty bottle of scotch clutched to his chest.

It’s weird, that this feels way worse.

“Felix,” she says again, and her words are softer this time. “You seem… well, I haven’t seen you look like this since we um… well _you know_ , and I found you...” But she sighs and Felix can’t help but let out a stupid little snort. He’d already known that they’d been together in whatever and wherever _this_ is, but he’s struck by how typical he is, having fucked up things with her too. 

“Annie,” he finally says, sounding nasty and pitiful and pathetic, but Felix finds that he doesn’t care anymore. He doesn’t want to care about anything. “Do I push people away?”

“Is that what he said to you?” she asks gently. 

“Everything that he said was true and I-- I’m so angry at myself,” Felix admits in a soul clattering confession. “And it’s unfair; it’s not okay. How can such a wonderful man love me? How can he even _think_ that I’m worth anything like that. And even after all the shit this week, after everything, he still fucking says it as he walks out the door and it’s unfair. _”_

Unfair, because he’s not the one that deserves Sylvain, he never was, and now that he’s had this weird taste of what could be domestic bliss, Felix kind of wants it back. 

“Is this what happened to us?” he blubbers. “Is this why we didn’t work? Am I just incapable of--”

Annette doesn’t let him finish the thought. “Oh, Felix,” she soothes as she pulls him to her, nestling his face into her neck, her fingers combing through his midnight hair. He’s never really deserved her either, and that’s why he never married his Annette, because the moment she had met Mercie, he knew that she could do better. 

“Don’t say such ridiculous things,” Annette tells him. “Some people aren’t meant to be, and that’s okay.”

“But Sylvain--”

“I was talking about you and I. Ignore the big oaf; he’s being dumb.” Felix tries, focusing on Annette’s soft comfort and Mercedes’s gentle hand on his back, rubbing circles, but it’s hard and it’s dumb. 

It’s also dumb to think that maybe you can fall in love with a person in only a few days, but Felix has always doubted himself, and even moreso since this entire mess started.

“I ruined us, and now I’ve ruined him,” Felix says against her neck.

“No honey,” she says to him, lips close to his temple, and Felix is glad for her, he’s glad that he can still count on her. “And I’m going to tell you exactly why. You and I had our problems, but it was never _you_. Do you want to know when I knew that Sylvain would be the one?”

“No,” he groans into her neck, because it isn’t something that’s meant for him, the _other_ Felix should hear this. But then again, the other Felix would have never let this happen. 

“Too bad,” she laughs, and he’s not surprised, because Annette will always tell you how she feels, whether you want her to or not. “You had your gay panic,” she says, “Freaking out about liking a guy, and convinced that he’d never like you back, so you never asked him. You _refused_ to, but then there was Ingrid’s Yule party that year, and he just couldn’t stop looking at you, or you him, and I just _knew,_ Felix. It was never that we didn’t love each other, it’s just that you loved him more, and that’s why I _told_ you to go after him.”

She had done _what_ now? Whatever relationship Annette and Felix has in this life, clearly transcends all other friendships, because what woman tells her man to go after another man? Annette is an angel. She’s a Goddess, she’s something else entirely, and Mercedes too, because she sits there beside him, humming lightly. 

“Your problem isn’t pulling away Felix,” Annette continues, “It’s that you love too fiercely-- so much so that you don’t know how to express it. You keep it wound so tight and when it comes time to show it you just… you don’t. It’s scary to love a person and it’s even scarier when they love you back.

“Sylvain is dumb, but he loves you more than anything; more than you and I ever did. Leave him be for the night and stay here. We’ll pile into the bed, we’ll watch something terribly sappy, and Mercedes and I will eat so many cookies that our stomachs will hurt. You _will_ sleep in and when you sit here, eating lunch tomorrow, you _will_ call him, understand?”

Felix nods against her breast, breathing out a sigh of relief. Annette and Mercedes drag him into the bedroom after making him eat the food on his plate. It’s dumb how much he loves the domestic coddling, laying against Annette’s chest as she strokes his hair. Mercedes is on his other side, hand on his shoulder gently, still rubbing those soothing circles. He falls asleep first, tired and exhausted and barely watching the movie on the television.

When Felix wakes in the morning, alone in the large bed and sunlight peeking through the windows, he feels more rested than he has in years. 

* * *

The kitchen table is quiet, but it’s comfortable. Annette and Mercedes call in to work, despite Felix’s protests. 

“No amount of work is worth losing the only thing that matters,” Annette said to him earlier that morning, when she’d dragged him from the bed. Felix knows her tones well, and he knows when it’s useless to fight her. 

She sits to his left in fluffy pajamas, one leg crossed over the other as she reads the paper. Mercedes flits about the kitchen proper, fully dressed in a cream colored blouse and a soft-looking mahogany skirt. She drops a tea mug in front of Annette, leaning over for a gentle kiss and Felix’s heart twists at the sweet domesticity of it. 

He’d fucking lost his mind last night, coming here but… he’d needed it. He doesn’t cry, he doesn’t ever lose it like that -- it’s been nearly a _decade_ since it’s been so bad. But he doesn’t regret it. His face hurts and his eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, but his heart feels light, like the years that have weighed him down are suddenly gone. 

Or lighter. Felix is a work in progress. 

Mercedes drops a cup in front of him next, followed by a plate of pancakes. Annette’s always teased him about refusing syrup, but he tucks in without a word, thankful for their kindness and their willingness to not judge. 

Yesterday, Felix would have said that he doesn’t deserve friends like these. 

Today, it’s not that he thinks he does, but he’s come to the conclusion that he’s done some pretty fucked up shit in his life, and that he needs to do better. He needs to be better, to the people in his life. 

“It’s nearly noon,” Annette says. Felix sees that she’s dropped the paper to look at the clock hanging above the sink. 

Noon means doom. Noon means calling Sylvain and trying to patch up whatever he’s fucked up, because if there’s anyone who doesn’t deserve what’s happened, it’s the only man who seems to truly know him, and his own personal Felix. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, I’ll--” He looks at his plate and the pancakes the Mercedes has made for him. At his tea, perfectly brewed. “As soon as I’m done with this.”

He doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t frown. 

It’s a start. 

* * *

Unlike Felix, Mercedes and Annette live in a proper house, with a proper backyard. 

He sits on their porch, painted white but already chipped with age. There are plants everywhere, carefully tended to by Annette and her silly songs, watered and pruned with love and it shows, because they seem to thrive in bursts of bright colors.

He sits on the step, instead of one of the outdoor chairs, outfitted with soft cushions, made by Mercedes herself. In his hand, sits his phone, Sylvain’s number pulled up on the screen and his thumb hovering over it. 

He’s not the right Felix, so he has no idea if he can fix this, but he’s sure as hell going to try. He’s tired of fucking things up, and leaving them fucked up. 

He backs out of the phone app and pulls up the photo gallery. Felix isn’t one for pictures, but Sylvain seems the type to thrive on them. He slowly scrolls through them, one by one, taking in what kind of life they have. 

He hates pictures, and maybe this Felix does too. But he’s in a lot of them. And he looks-- well, he looks annoyed in every single photo. Never smiling, always like he’s one moment away from strangling the other. Sylvain leaning over his shoulder, draped across him, Felix scowling in return. Sylvain doing something dumb, like flirting with a garden statue. Pictures with friends-- Annette, Mercedes, and a blonde woman that is probably Ingrid, mentioned the night before. 

It’s odd, seeing his face, stare back at him from pictures that he’s never taken. 

He comes across one and halts, thumb twitching as he regards it. Someone else had taken it-- probably Annette, because she likely knows his phone pass code. He never changed it _after_ , so The Felix that belongs here was probably no different.

Sylvain chatting with friends, Felix off to the side, nursing a drink. He watches Sylvain in the picture, the harsh lines of his figure and face severe, but eyes soft and his lips twitched into the barest hint of a smile, and it’s like his heart crashes all at once. 

Felix knows he’s never looked at Annette like that, not even when he was on a knee, ring held out and asking her to spend eternity with him. And she’d known, she’d _known_ , which is why she had said no, because _this_ is what he’s supposed to look like when he’s with the person he loves. 

He doesn’t love Sylvain, but _this_ Felix does, and if he’s going to be stuck there for eternity… Well, maybe he can too. Eventually.

He doesn’t get the chance to think any longer on it, a call coming through with a picture flashing across the screen. Sylvain, sticking his fingers up his nose in a ridiculous fashion, eyes crossed and tongue sticking out, and it’s singlehandedly the most ugly and endearing thing that Felix has ever seen. 

He’d pick the same picture, probably.

“Hey,” he answers quietly, pressing the phone against his ear. 

_“Hey,”_ Sylvain breathes on the other end. _“I-- actually, I didn’t think you’d answer.”_

Felix snorts at that. “Why would you think that?”

Sylvain hesitates and Felix can see it, him standing there, rubbing at his neck awkwardly. _“Well I uh-- I said some pretty terrible shit to you last night.”_ He doesn’t apologize though, and Felix doesn’t think he should. 

_“Look, Felix,”_ Sylvain says, sigh cresting through his words and he sounds tired, he sounds so tired, just like Felix. They’re exhausted and not just from the fight the night before, but from a near week of dancing around each other like strangers. _“I don’t know exactly what it is that you want.”_

“I want to come home.” The words come easily, naturally, like he’s known Sylvain forever. 

He can imagine the sheepish smile that Sylvain is prone to, even at the worst of times. Especially at the worst of times, if the pictures that Felix scrolled through told him anything. 

_“Oh, Felix,”_ Sylvain says quietly. 

_Oh, Felix_ . It’s what Annette had said to him, as Felix waited for an answer, knee already sore from the tile he knelt on, ring suddenly heavy like lead in his fingertips. _Oh, Felix, we need to talk_. 

But Sylvain says something else. _“Of course you can come home.”_

And it’s dumb, that Felix is crying again, because Felix only cries when he’s in the midst of a massive, emotional breakdown. He definitely doesn’t cry for two men that he doesn’t know. He definitely doesn’t cry in relief.

Sylvain must hear his poorly kept hiccups through the call though, because then he says, _“Darling, it’s okay. Come back home, okay? It’ll be okay.”_

_It’ll be okay._

For the first time in nearly a decade, Felix believes it.

* * *

Nearly a week ago, he’d lived an existence where he unlocked this door everyday, only to open it to a lonely, negative existence. When he’d locked it last night, he’d left behind an empty house, charged with angry energy. 

_Never go to bed angry,_ Glenn had once told him, and it’s one of the few things that he can remember of his brother that doesn’t bring up feelings of dread. Felix hadn’t gone to bed angry though, he’d gone to bed in the midst of his mid-life crisis, sopping wet with tears and snot. 

Most people buy cars. Felix gets jettisoned into an alternate reality, where he fucks everything up for his counterpart and learns how to _feel_ in the process. He already hates it, this soft, mushy feeling in his chest and he hopes that it’ll go away.

Felix slides the key into the lock with nervous energy. He steps into the home quietly, before dropping his overnight bag in the entry hall. He leaves the keys on the table by the door. His shoes are slipped off and carefully tucked away on a rack. 

Sylvain comes running around the corner, sliding across the wooden floors in his socks. But then he just stands there, as if he’s afraid he’ll scare Felix off with the slightest movement. 

Felix knows that he looks terrible, but he walks right up to him and pauses, before dropping his head against Sylvain’s chest. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, and Sylvain reaches up to wrap his arms around him, pulling him closer and Felix can’t help but sink into him.

Felix has spent the week pulling away because he didn’t want to overstep boundaries, but he likes this, Felix likes the warmth that radiates off of him. Sylvain smells like sandalwood and cinnamon, and it’s unfair, it’s just _unfair_ , because he doesn’t belong to him. 

But Felix will let himself have this small moment of comfort, even if it isn't meant for him.

“It’s okay and I’m sorry too,” Sylvain whispers into his hair. “It doesn’t change what I said, but I’m sorry.” He pulls back to look at Felix, thumbing at his cheek, eyes red and puffy too. “We’re a mess.”

“Yeah,” Felix says. He reaches up, but hesitates. Then he grabs Sylvain’s hand. “Yeah we are.”

“Did Annette take care of you?”

“She’s the best.” 

Sylvain hums at that. “She always has been.” Sylvain pulls away to take both of Felix’s hands, thumbing over the back of them. “Come on, I ordered food.”

“Please tell me it’s not pizza.” Because as far as Felix is concerned, he never wants to eat pizza again. Sylvain smiles at him, wide and and slightly lopsided before winking at him, and Goddess above, Felix isn’t remotely surprised that this man somehow warmed the ice-cold of his Felix’s heart. 

When Sylvain tugs at him, Felix follows without a word.

* * *

Dinner is a quiet affair, full of well seasoned street tacos and orange soda. 

Now, they’re sitting on the couch that Felix hates, but they aren’t a world’s length apart and trying to avoid each other, and Felix feels one part relieved and one part annoyed. Sylvain’s got his arm slung around his shoulders, Felix pulled close to his side as they stare at the television without really watching it. It shouldn’t feel so natural and effortless. Felix should push him away and maintain that distance but-- 

Sylvain’s fingers thread across the crown of Felix’s head, and he can’t help but sink into the touch, because it’s been far, far too long since he’s found comfort in intimacy. 

“Felix, let me brush out your hair?” Sylvain asks quietly, mouth close to his ear. It sounds nice and domestic, and the kind of thing that a couple would do after a bad fight, so Felix nods, trying to keep up the facade of a man trying to patch things up.

Sylvain pulls away, giving Felix a long and appraising look, and there’s something there that strikes Felix as odd. Sylvain’s looking at him like he’s trying to figure him out, like he’s not quite sure what it is exactly that he sees. But then he smiles and leans forward to kiss his forehead. “I’ll be right back,” he whispers against the skin there. 

Felix sinks into the couch, relishing the moment as he tries to gather his thoughts, but Sylvain returns surprisingly quick, a boar bristle hairbrush in his hands. 

Sylvain’s Felix has taste.

Sylvain motions for him to turn sideways on the couch and Felix complies. Then Sylvain turns off the television and panic creeps into the pit of his stomach, because he can’t do this, he can’t, he can’t, _he can’t--_

Sylvain’s fingers dip into his hair, pulling out the hair tie with careful ease and a softness that belies his large hands. “We need to talk about it, Felix,” he says quietly from behind him.

“Yeah,” Felix breathes, fingers fisting the soft material of his pajama pants at the thigh as the pit of his stomach sinks lower and lower. 

Sylvain is quiet for a long moment, using his fingers to pull apart Felix’s hair, waving gently through the strands to separate them. “Things have been weird the last few days,” he says and finally he raises the brush, pulling it through a small section of Felix’s hair. 

Felix is hard with his hair. He doesn’t take good care of it and when it comes to brushing, he yanks hard at it, because the sooner the chore is done, the better. Sylvain though, holds his hair reverently, one hand wrapped around the silky strands as the other tugs at them softly with the brush. He starts from the bottom, working is way up, gently pulling at the tangles. 

“It must be weird for you too,” Sylvain continues. “Easing back into unfamiliar things.” His voice is soft and Felix is half compelled to think that Sylvain has figured it out too, with the way that he crafts his words around such a strained topic. “Too many work accounts. Ingrid’s wedding coming up. Dimitri and Dedue’s dumb housewarming party-- like I get it, they’ve bought a house, cool. _We’ve_ never had one of those though, and it’s annoying. All of it is.”

“I’m just tired,” Felix says with a sigh, but the explanation is just as flimsy as the first couple of times he tried it, and he can tell that it still doesn’t work by the way that Sylvain’s hands pause in his hair. 

“I would bet,” Sylvain finally replies, hands resuming. Felix wants to sink into the touch, head falling back as Sylvain parts off another section. “It’s exhausting when you have no idea what’s going on.” 

Felix opens his eyes, mouth parted in a question, but he doesn’t ask it. He doesn’t want to breach the trust that’s been tentatively forged between them. So he says, “Exhausting isn’t the half of it.”

“It’ll be okay,” Sylvain says. Felix hums, closing his eyes, relishing at the tug at his hairline and Sylvain’s fingers as they comb at his scalp. “We’ve been through a lot, you know. There’s an entire story behind Felix and Sylvain, and it’s taken a long time for us to figure things out.”

Felix is silent as Sylvain brushes on, thinking back on everything that’s happened in the last few days. Sylvain was right; Felix _did_ push everyone away, made a point of it even. Went out of his way to hold people an arms length apart, and it’s not because he’s afraid of commitment, it’s because Annette was right. 

When Felix loves, he loves deeply, but it’s easier to pretend that you don’t; because when you do, people feel the need to comfort you, and it almost makes it worse. And even if you haven’t moved on, even if you’re alone in your pathetic misery, all you need is for people _think_ that you’re alright and they leave you alone. 

It’s easier, Felix thinks, to be alone, because then the only person that you can disappoint is yourself. 

Sylvain is quiet, brushing with well-practiced and adoring ease. When he’s done, he braids Felix’s hair down his back, before tying it off with a hair band. He swipes it up, throwing it over his shoulder, fingers ghosting along the back of his neck.

“Felix, look at me, would you?” Felix does, shifting around on the couch until he’s face-to-face with Sylvain again. “How long has it been since someone’s taken care of you?”

He knows. Felix knows that he _has_ to, from the question that he’s just asked, to the way his copper eyes pity him. He realizes that he hasn’t called him _Fe_ , like before, not once that night, but--

Sylvain doesn’t broach the topic further, or imply anything else.

It’s unfair for Felix to feel attached to this man and his kind words, and the way that he wants to soothe him. 

“I don’t want to be alone anymore,” Felix says quietly, and it’s like a weight has been crushing him for years and years has just been lifted. Tears don’t threaten, but his chest feels tight, and he can’t breathe and--

Sylvain reaches out for his hand, his skin warm and fingers soft. His thumb rubs circles across the back of his palm. “Felix, you--” A pause and then a sigh, like Sylvain’s thinking about the situation they’re in and the logistics behind it. His gaze is soft though, almost sad. “You aren’t. You don’t have to be.”

There’s heavy implication there. “Sylvain,” he breathes, but Sylvain interrupts him by bringing his hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to it. 

“Let’s go to bed.” Felix can barely swallow around the lump in his throat, staring at Sylvain’s hands wrapped around his own, like they might burn him if he holds on any longer. “Felix,” Sylvain says, and Felix meets his gaze, warm and soft and inviting, and it feels like it’s actually meant for _him_. 

Felix nods dumbly. Sylvain tugs at him lightly, pulling him from the couch, before slinging and arm around his shoulder. He leans down but hesitates, lips lingering just against his skin. Then he pecks the side of Felix’s head lightly. “Come on,” he says. 

Felix follows him without a word.

* * *

Felix and Sylvain both go to work. They come home and share a quiet, but not silent dinner. Afterwards Sylvain watches television, while Felix reads through tax reports from work. Sylvain brushes his hair out silently, and they go to bed. 

Then things shift. 

Dinner turns from polite conversation to _actual_ conversation, as days pass. They pick shows together to watch afterwards, lounging about with bone-weary satisfaction, Felix’s feet in Sylvain’s lap as he rubs at his arches idly. 

Sylvain still brushes out his hair before bed, but he takes longer now, sweeping touches down Felix’s neck and across his shoulders that warm his skin. 

Sylvain knows that he’s different, but he’s never commented on it, and Felix wonders if it’s because he _wants_ to be wrong about his suspicions, or he’s figured out that Felix is the loneliest man alive. They’ve just gone about trying to live normally, which makes no sense, but it’s starting to work. 

Felix… doesn’t hate it anymore, whatever this is. Sylvain’s an idiot, but he’s a comfortable idiot, and Felix has forgotten how nice it is to come home to someone every night. 

It’s been about a week, and Felix closes his eyes, sinking into the soft touch of Sylvain’s fingers on his neck. The boar brush tugs gently, but the slight burn at his hairline is nice, and his hair hasn’t looked this healthy in what seems like years. The Felix that belongs here must not take care of himself either, because Sylvain’s motions are the practiced ones of a man who forces self-care.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Felix says. Because Sylvain is. He’s gotten so used to the constant chatter that streams from his mouth, that the sudden silence seems odd. But-- since when did he actually _care_? 

“I’m just thinking,” Sylvain says. He puts the brush down, rubbing at Felix’s scalp lightly before tying his hair into a sleek braid. “It’s nothing, just… Sometimes I think about things.”

Felix frowns, but doesn’t say anything, unfolding himself from Sylvain’s lap. He’s about to head into the bedroom, when he pauses to look back. “Look, I know that--” A sigh. “I know that things have been weird, and that I’m not the chatty type. But if you need to talk, I’ll listen.”

Sylvain smiles at him from the couch, small and lazy, but it looks content, and it makes Felix’s heart beat wildly in a way that he doesn’t like. He retreats before Sylvain can properly respond. 

When Felix comes out of the bathroom, fresh and minty, he’s wearing Sylvain’s clothes to sleep in. It’s because his are dirty and the laundry hasn’t been done, and really, what’s a pair of boxers and a plain t-shirt in the grand scheme of things but-- 

Sylvain looks up from the bed, where he’s leaning against the headboard, book in his lap and a finger marking his place. His lips part slightly at the sight of Felix, swallowing thickly and--

Felix immediately bristles. “Mine are dirty.”

“No, I-- _um_ , it’s fine. It’s nothing.” 

But Felix knows it isn’t nothing, because even if he isn’t _his_ Felix, he still looks like him, and Sylvain-- while a man of considerable and admirable restraint-- isn’t immune to the way that he looks in his clothes. 

Felix sighs. “I’ll do the laundry tomorrow--”

“Felix, it’s fine. You can wear my clothes,” Sylvain says quietly. 

Felix levels him with a quick look and then slides into the covers. Sylvain looks like he wants to say something else, but opts against it, turning back to his book. Felix watches him finish the chapter, before leaning over to turn out the light. 

It should be awkward, sharing a bed like this, but it’s not. His side of the bed doesn’t seem quite as lumpy anymore, when paired with the warmth that radiates from Sylvian at his side, a veritable space heater in his own right. 

Felix's chest aches at the feel of it. It aches because it’s been too long since he’s had this kind of domesticity. It aches because he misses it, the little things; sharing your day over dinner. Fighting over the television remote. Soft fingers smoothing through his hair with care. The way the mattress sags under another person’s weight. 

He hates this feeling of affection, worming slowly through his heart, because it doesn’t matter how much he’s come to like this man, Felix knows that this is likely only temporary. 

It hurts.

* * *

“You’re awake,” Sylvain says quietly into the darkness. 

It’s been exactly two days, four hours and goddess knows how many minutes, since Felix has come to terms that he _might_ be falling in love with this fool. 

“I can’t sleep,” Felix says, knowing there’s no reason in pretending. 

“Seems to be pretty standard lately.”

So, Sylvain has noticed that Felix doesn’t sleep well, often laying on his side and staring at the broad expanse of his back instead, itching to reach out and touch it. It’s dumb. Felix doesn’t like men. Except Sylvain, and it’s not because he’s unfairly handsome and Felix is _mildly_ curious. 

He’s noticed that Sylvain doesn’t press the issue though, which is in it’s own way, a comfort. Felix hates pushy people. Sylvain rolls over properly in the bed, arm shoved under his pillow, head propped up so he can get a proper look at Felix. The light from outside the window casts an eerie glow, but it suits him, the soft moonglow that settles over his tired form. 

Sylvain looks concerned, _genuinely_ so. 

“Sylvain, I--”

“I know you don’t do feelings well,” Sylvain interrupts. “But I promised that you weren’t alone anymore.” A pause, with that cute little furrow he gets, falling across his brow and then, “Come here, come closer.” 

Felix hesitates, but shuffles closer to Sylvain, and he’s warm and he smells nice, and he takes a moment to sink into it. When he opens his eyes, Sylvain’s looking at him, _really_ looking at him, soul searching and deep, and Felix can feel his bottom lip about to wobble, because he doesn’t do _emotions_ well, and they’re welling up very suddenly. 

Sylvain reaches out, hand soft on his face, thumb rubbing along the bottom of his lip, like he’s thinking about kissing him. Felix wants, he _wants_ so many things. To fall into this, to feel that comfort and warmth, to forget about shitty things and tiring work, and how fucking lonely he’s been. 

“Felix,” Sylvain says quietly, raising up on his elbow to lean closer. Felix grabs the front of his shirt, wringing the soft cotton tightly in his hands and Sylvain freezes, like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar and he moves to pull away like he’s embarrassed. 

But Felix holds firm, pulling him back. 

They’re both surprised, but Sylvain speaks first. “I miss this,” he says quietly. “I miss a lot of things about you.”

“Yeah,” Felix murmurs, and Sylvain takes his chin again, thumb barely pressing into the seam of his mouth. Felix misses it too; the connection and intimacy shared with another person. 

“Felix, I _really_ want to kiss you,” Sylvain breathes. Felix’s breath hitches slightly at the bold statement, but he wants, he wants, he _wants--_

“So do it,” Felix says with more conviction than he thought capable. Sylvain regards him carefully in the dim light, before closing the gap between them.

Sylvain’s lips are soft and pliable, and Felix sinks right into his presence, into the feel of him. He grips his shirt tight, pulling him closer, rolling Sylvain overtop him, hips cradled between Felix’s bent legs and--

Sylvain gasps into the movement, tongue sliding across the seam of his mouth. Felix responds in kind, opening up to him, opening up _everything_ to him, and it’s scary; it’s really scary because this feels wholly different than other experiences he’s shared-- even with Annette. The woman that he wanted to _marry_ . Maybe it’s because Sylvain knows what he likes already, or maybe there’s a real connection there, something something _soulmates_ , but the idea sounds dumb the moment that Felix even entertains it. 

The universe has never been on Felix’s side, but for this moment-- for this _tiny_ moment-- it feels like it is, and he never wants it to end.

Sylvain pulls back, breath heaving against Felix’s face. He leans on a forearm above him, his other hand snaking up to brush Felix’s bangs back. “Felix,” he murmurs softly, eyes shimmering with hope and love and adoration, and for a moment, it feels like it’s truly for _him_ , not the Felix that Sylvain has been in love with for Goddess knows how long. 

“It’s the same,” Sylvain says, and it’s like he’s reading Felix’s mind, because the words are too on point for anything else, too close to home, and he thinks all sorts of things that he doesn’t want to, because if he does, it’ll be too hard to pretend in the morning when all of this is over. 

Sylvain must see the apprehension that bleeds through him, because he plants his knees firmly into the mattress, gripping Felix’s face in his hands and repeats, “You’re the _same.”_

“Show me.” Felix’s voice hangs between them, Sylvain looking down at him like a man starved and wanting, hands cradling his cheeks gently. Felix doesn’t feel like this gaze is for someone else, he feels like it’s for him and that Sylvain’s words hold a deeper meaning, he knows it. He _knows_ it. 

Sylvain kisses him again, slower and sweeter this time, mouth slotting against his expertly. Sylvain lets go of his face, moving to grip at his hips instead, pulling them closer, pressing deeper and heat rolls through Felix, rising up and--

He moans and Sylvain smiles against his lips. “Fe,” Sylvain whispers, his breath lingering between them. His hand rucks up Felix’s shirt, pressing hot fingers against his hips, and Felix is burning, he’s burning up in the touch. _“Fe,”_ Sylvain says again, and their eyes meet, Sylvain’s half-lidded and hazy. 

Sylvain slides down, their eyes locked together, and Felix wants to throw caution into the sea and fly into the sun. 

So he does.

* * *

Sylvain loves him. 

Felix doesn’t know how he knows it, but he just does. It’s in the way he mildly flirts with him. The way that he handles chores and rubs Felix’s feet after work and lets him wear his clothes. It’s tattooed into his skin when Sylvain worships him in their bed, chanting his name over and over, as Felix presses himself deep into him. 

Sylvain loves his Felix, but also _him_ , and it’s enough to ease the pain of being stuck in this weird pocket of the universe for what seems like forever. 

Felix has gotten used to it, he thinks, this strange reality and Sylvain, the man with a smile as radiant as the sun, and Felix feels himself slipping deeper and _deeper and_ -

Felix pauses. When had it become _their_ bed, not just Sylvain’s? Felix looks forward to falling asleep, Sylvain cuddled around him like he might disappear at any moment, sharing warmth and comfort and--

Felix knows this feeling that cracks through his carefully maintained facade, and it’s been a long time-- it’s been a _really_ long time-- and Goddess above, Annette had been right when she said that some people just love others and that you’d _know_ when it was different, when it turns into a matter of being _in_ love. 

Sylvain walks into the kitchen, khaki shorts and gray shirt covered in green stains. He leans over to kiss his cheek, smelling like fresh cut grass because he just mowed the lawn, and Felix’s heart _aches_ for this man in such a good way that it rips right through him. 

“Felix,” he says warmly, fingers curling into his long hair, before kissing his forehead too. For good measure. 

“Sylvain,” Felix blurts, half surprised by his sudden appearance, warmed by his affection and-- 

He’s going to tell him, either by accident or in the heat of the moment, and Felix knows that it won’t fuck anything up anymore, which is the scary part. Sylvain pulls back, face expectant as he waits. But Felix doesn’t say anything, words caught as his throat tightens and this is what always happens. He’s never been good with feelings and he never will be. 

But Sylvain knows that, and he knows Felix; better than Felix knows himself. So he presses a kiss to the crown of his head and says, “I know, Fe. You don’t have to say it.”

He should, he really should, because Sylvain is ever patient and understanding, and he deserves it. 

“Sandwiches,” he says instead, pointing to empty plates and containers of meat and cheese on the counter. “Go pick something to watch, I’ll be right there.”

As Sylvain turns to leave the kitchen, Felix reaches out, grabbing at his shirt and says, “Wait.” Sylvain does, Felix pulling him back, hand fisted in the front of his loose shirt. Sylvain’s already smiling as he ducks lower to meet the kiss, short and sweet, and exactly what Felix wants. He can feel the way that his cheeks burn red, but the panic in his chest loosens, limbs crackling with heat, and it’s not just from something as innocuous as a kiss. 

Sylvain tugs at a loose strand of his hair, smiling wide with practiced ease, and he’s perfect. Felix wants him, he wants to stay, he wants this life, and it’s terrible and it’s selfish, and he wills himself not to think about what’s happened to the man that he’s replaced. 

Felix doesn’t want to leave, now that he’s found what he’s been missing in the huge, gaping hellhole that had been his life. 

He makes the sandwiches in silence, looming over him like a threatening cloud. Mustard and turkey for Sylvain, mayo and ham for him. Two slices of cheese for the former, none for the latter. Sylvain’s cut in half, because he complains about having to hold a whole sandwich with two hands, when he’d rather hold Felix’s knee with one, as they sit side-by-side. Felix cuts his as well. 

He has to say something, Felix decides, carefully taking the plates in hand. Sylvain deserves to know that this isn’t some one-sided and awkward fling, even though they don’t talk about the elephant lurking in the room. 

Felix turns the corner to find an empty living room. 

Not just empty, but different. 

Sylvain is gone, no where to be seen. 

“No,” Felix breathes. The rocking chair and handmade quilt, courtesy of Mercedes, is gone. The couch is still the one he hates, but it’s stiff because it’s never used, not because it’s got bad back support. 

Sylvain’s things have vanished.

Felix drops the plates, not caring that the food tumbles to the ground, or that they burst apart in a shower of ceramic. He’s too busy searching _their_ home, trying to figure out what’s happened and where everything has gone and where--

It’s _his_ home, as it was before, back to the clinical and neat tidiness that’s more expected in a realtor's model house, than a place where someone actually lives. The bedroom is crisply kept with his boring furniture, bare of any personality. 

“No, no, _no,”_ Felix murmurs, sinking into the bed. It doesn’t smell like him anymore, there’s no sandalwood or cinnamon, and his heart cracks in two. Sylvain’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone, he’s _gone_ , and he chokes on his tears, refusing to sob because he’s _better than that_ , but the tears still slip down his cheeks. 

The universe is cruel, Felix thinks bitterly, to let him taste happiness only to rip it right back. He doesn’t want to be here; he wants to go back, he wants to find his heart again. 

But as it cracks open and bleeds, and he weeps, Felix wonders if he’ll even have a heart to fix, because he feels like he’s drowning. Drowning in feelings that he should have expressed properly, and now he can’t, because Sylvain never belonged here. 

Sylvain had never been his, and Felix was a fool for thinking that he ever was in the first place.

* * *

As far as anyone was concerned, nothing had happened. Annette and Mercedes greet him normally at work, never once hinting that he’d been gone. His tax accounts have been worked on--oddly-- everything in proper order. Felix would have been convinced that the entire thing was a massive fever dream, if it weren’t for the spoiled groceries in his fridge, nearly a month past their use-by date. Or the small and random objects in odd places. Laundry that had been done, neatly folded but not put away, because his room is arranged just a little bit differently.

The other Felix must have been here, he surmises. Played with things that weren’t his, ordered out instead of cooked-- things that he would have done as well, in a moment of wild insanity. 

The other Felix must have been lonely, and for some reason, the thought poisons the pit of his stomach. He wouldn’t wish that feeling on anyone, no matter how much he misses Sylvain, with his warm, freckled skin and lopsided smile.

Annette is the first one to say something, because of course she is. Annette can’t keep her mouth shut for whatever it’s worth, and because Felix has spent nearly two weeks looking like a kicked puppy, she decides to be the one to broach the topic. 

“Felix,” she says at lunch one day, popping a cherry tomato into her mouth as she shakes her salad box around to mix the dressing. “I don’t know what’s wrong, but you need to snap out of it.”

Felix immediately bristles, put on the offensive. “Nothing’s wrong,” he snaps, but he regrets his tone the moment he sees her face fall. It’s not fair to treat her like this, because the only thing that Annette has done wrong, is fucking _care_ for him. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” she repeats, and he knows that tone, the one her she sounds tired and her voice warbles just a little bit. She’s more worried about him then she’s let on. “Does this have to do with anything about your weird behavior this last month?”

“I haven’t been--”

“Who’s Sylvain?”

Felix’s heart stops at the name, because he’s made a point to not even _think_ it. It hurts too much and it aches even now, his heart tipping to the side like it’s about to burst. He’s trying not to feel anything, he’s trying to be that pitiful, emotionless husk he was before, be he _can’t_. 

He doesn’t say anything, and Annette pops open the lid of her salad container. “You asked me where he was weeks ago, and I had no idea who you were talking about. You were annoyed by that, by the way, but I would think that I would know if some man had entered your life. And I’d be hurt if you hadn’t told me--”

“Annie, please don’t,” Felix asks, weary beyond belief and not at all equipped to handle this conversation. “Just -- _please_.”

She reaches out, fingers wrapping around his hand gently. They’re cold, unlike the warm hold of Sylvain, but it’s nice, and he loves Annie, truly he does but-- 

He pulls his hand from hers and she looks hurt, but she doesn’t try again. “He’s no one,” he tells her. “Just a fling. It ended.”

“Badly?” Annette asks.

“No, it just-- It wasn’t meant to be, I think.” The words sound weak and pitiful, and they don’t make him feel better. He knows she’ll see right through him.

“Somethings aren’t,” Annette says. “But you and I know that better than anyone. Felix, look at me please.” He does and she tuts, seeing his red-rimmed eyes and ragged face. He looks like he’s aged years, probably. “I don’t know what happened, but I do know this-- You love more fiercely than anyone I know, and one day that’ll count for something.”

Felix laughs at her, and it’s bitter and acrid tasting in his mouth, and she looks at him like he’s an absolute madman, but he thinks it’s better than crying, because that would imply that he still had the capacity to feel such a thing like _love_. 

He can’t anymore, Felix thinks. His heart’s too damaged to ever truly recover.

Annette purses her lips in annoyance. “Get out,” she says when he’s done. “Go do something. Take a walk. Run in those ridiculously tight joggers you’re attached to. Cooping yourself up and moping about it won’t help.”

He laughs again, this time a little chuckle as he shakes his head, but his lips curve into a little smile at a memory. At another Annette, saying something very similar. In fact, this entire conversation had been weirdly familiar.

“Thanks Annie.” 

He means it.

* * *

It’s winter. 

The air is cold, but Felix feels better. It’s taken months for him to properly take Annette’s advice, but that’s because he knew that she’d be right, and it thoroughly annoys him. 

His track pants _are_ stupidly tight, but they were expensive and given to him by Glenn, so like fuck he wasn’t going to make use of them until he can’t anymore.

Felix used to run in this park every morning, until his mornings at work got to be too early. Then it was late evenings. As his caseload got heavier though, and his hours longer, he’d stopped entirely. 

It’s chilly and brisk and way too early to be up on his day off, but he felt like it. He doesn’t know why, really. Felix woke that morning with an _urge_ to just go run out his frustrations. It's working. His lungs burn and his muscles cramp with expected soreness, but he feels more alive than he has for the better part of half a year. 

It’s gotten better, kind of. But he’s not _right_ and he doubts that he ever will be. 

Felix taps his fingers against his thigh impatiently, taking in the coffee shop. It’s got a dumb pun for a name, but he thinks that a warm latte would be a nice end to a successful run, so he slips inside, standing in line. 

Ten minutes and a take-away cup later, he turns from the counter only to slip in a wet spot, falling against a hard body, and _shit_ it’s embarrassing, because Felix isn’t the type to slip on anything. His sneakers are supposed to have good traction and--

“Woah buddy, you okay there?”

Felix’s blood runs cold at the smooth voice and the way that it curls around words. He’s hearing things, he’s got to be, it _can’t--_

Sylvain stands before him, hair bright in the artificial lights, smile easy and wide under a spattering of freckles. Once he gets a proper look at Felix, he stiffens, fingers tightening around his arms as he steadies him. 

Felix is going to vomit, he’s going to puke _all_ over the floor, because this shouldn’t be happening, this _can’t_ be happening. He must look ill, because Sylvain tugs him to the side. “Hold on, let’s get you seated okay? Yeah, just like that.”

The seat is cold and hard under him, but Sylvain’s hands are burning against his skin and when he lets go, Felix feels like he’s lost everything again and--

Sylvain only went to get a cup of water and as he sits, Felix sees that he’s covered in coffee. “I’m sorry--”

“Not a big deal,” Sylvain says, sliding the water to him. “I mean, I’ve had worse thrown at me, I promise you.” 

Felix drains half of it, knowing that he must look ridiculous. Sylvain watches him carefully though, looking like he wants to say something but is unsure exactly where to start. So they sit there in awkward silence. 

The vampiric barista brings Sylvain a new coffee, sneers at Felix, and sets about mopping up the mess. Felix sneers back. Sylvain laughs, wrapping his hands around the warm mug, eyes twinkling like he _knows_. 

Felix does something really, really dumb. “Would you go on a date with me?” he blurts, and Goddess above he sounds insane, because who spills coffee all over a person and then immediately asks them out?

But Sylvain’s gaze softens, his smile affectionate and Felix knows that something weird is happening here, because he reaches out to take his hand, thumb soft as it rubs across his knuckles. 

“Of course, Felix,” he says. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, actually.”

**_Elsewhere_ **

Felix has come back to him. Sylvain doesn’t know how or why, but he’s there next to him in bed, reading over work reports with glasses perched smartly on the tip of his nose. Sylvain watches him carefully. Quietly. Like he’s afraid that he’ll disappear again. 

The glasses had been the first clue, really. 

That, and the fact that he’d never brought those sandwiches he promised, instead walking in through the front door in the worst mood that Sylvain’s _ever_ seen him in. 

“You’re staring,” Felix says to him, not bothering to look away from his work. Sylvain smiles, sliding closer. Felix immediately lifts an arm as Sylvain slots in next to him, cheek resting against his collarbone. 

“I’m glad that you came back to me,” he murmurs sleepily. Honestly, it’s been a long month and Sylvain is _tired_. 

Felix pauses before closing the folder. He pulls off his glasses, folding them gently before tossing them onto the bedside table. Then he digs into the sheets, fingers nestled into Sylvain’s hair as he cards through it. 

“Me too,” he says quietly. And then, “I forgot how dumb you were, when we first met.”

Sylvain laughs into his neck, but he’s glad, he’s _glad_ and happy and he can rest easily now. Well, maybe. 

He waits a bit before asking, “Do you think they’ll be okay?” 

Felix hums at that, fingers slipping down from his hair to his neck, cold against his hot skin, but soft as he rubs circles there. “Yeah,” he says. 

Sylvain presses a kiss to Felix’s neck, slow and languid, the start of something that the both of them are way too tired for, but they’re kind of desperate. Felix rolls over Sylvain, hair falling in a curtain around his face, looking at him fondly. 

“Yeah,” Sylvain repeats back, lips sliding into a devilish smile as he pulls Felix down to him. _“Yeah_.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Have questions? A burning need for answers? Have a story idea? Just want to talk Sylvix? Don't forget to check out my [Tumblr](https://missmarquin.tumblr.com/), and drop an ask!
> 
> Also, follow me on [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/BaldFossil)


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